Southern Comforts

“Nelson said you’re going to write a book about Roxanne Scarbrough.”

“I’m considering it.”

“Who on earth would buy such a book?”

“Perhaps all those millions of people who buy her lifestyle books,” Chelsea said mildly. She refused to be drawn into a position of defending a woman she didn’t even like.

“She’s nouveau riche.”

“I don’t know about the nouveau. But you’ve got the rich part right.”

“Honestly, Chelsea.” Deidre frowned and took a sip of tea from the gilt-rimmed cup. “Must you joke about everything?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not sure people care about things like that anymore, Mother.”

“I believe you’re right.”

“You do?” Chelsea took a sip of her own tea and contemplated ordering champagne instead. After all, any occasion when she and her mother actually found something to agree about should be celebrated.

“Of course. And that,” Deidre said stiffly, “is precisely what’s wrong with this country. People have lost all sense of values.”

“I don’t believe gilding a few pomegranates will lead to the downfall of western civilization,” Chelsea argued lightly.

“Laugh if you want to, but the woman is a menace. Would you believe that I found Tillie in the kitchen, watching her television program and practicing folding napkins into the shapes of swans?”

“That is hard to believe.” Chelsea decided that if the longtime Lowell housekeeper, a woman infamous for having things her own way, had actually become a fan, it was no wonder Roxanne topped the NYT bestseller list week after week.

“I nearly had a heart attack,” Deidre, who’d never been known for overstatement, said grimly. “I really don’t believe you should encourage such things, Chelsea.”

“I haven’t made up my mind whether I’m going to take the offer, Mother.”

“An interview with some self-appointed style maven is not exactly on a par with achieving world peace,” Deidre stated in the superior tone Chelsea knew well.

“True enough. But it could be important to me. It could mean a lot of national publicity.”

“That’s precisely what disturbs me,” Deidre complained. “All this striving to get your name in the magazines. And newspapers. Good grief, Chelsea, you sound just like your father.”

Despite her frustration, that icy remark drew a quick grin. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“You would.” Deidre shook her blond head. “I don’t understand you.”

“I know.” And never had, Chelsea tacked on silently. “And as much as I’d love to try to explain it to you again, you have a facial to get to. And I have to try to track down John Kennedy Jr. I heard the most amazing story this morning—”

“You know I refuse to listen to Kennedy gossip, Chelsea,” Deidre cut her off.

“I know, but—”

“Joe Kennedy was nothing but a shanty Irish bootlegger who married above himself. Even though Rose was Catholic, she could have done much better.”

“I know you believe that—”

“It’s the truth. However, speaking of marriage, when are you and Nelson going to start planning your wedding?”

“How about the year 2002?”

“I do so hate it when you’re flippant, Chelsea.”

Chelsea sighed. All her life she’d been inexorably maneuvered into an alliance between the Lowell and Waring families. Recalling all too well the acrimonious fights that had shattered her parents’ marriage, Chelsea had feared repeating their mistakes. But whenever she tried to explain her concerns, Nelson would calmly point out that since Warings never fought, she had nothing to worry about. Even knowing that was true, Chelsea was still not ready to take the risk of making their relationship permanent.

“Nelson agrees we should wait. If nothing else, there’s my trust fund to consider.”

“I don’t know what was in your great-grandmother’s mind when she came up with that ridiculous restriction. However, it’s not as if you really need the money since Nelson is certainly well off in his own right. And the longer you wait to start your family, the more difficult it will be to bear children.”

Chelsea decided this was no time to point out that Rose Kennedy was forty-two when the youngest of her eight children had been born.

“I’m not ready to have children, Mother,” she repeated what she’d already said so many times before. Although her mother didn’t appear to have a maternal bone in her body, lately she’d begun to display a very strong sense of dynasty. “Right now it’s all I can do to juggle my career.”

“Well, of course you’d hire a nanny,” Deidre said. “If you insist on continuing your work, a child needn’t interfere with your writing. Or your life.”

“I have no intention of handing my child, when I do have one, over to some stranger.”

Having grown up in the rarified world of nannies and housekeepers and private schools, Chelsea had vowed to create a better, warmer world for her own children. She was looking forward to baking cookies, volunteering at school carnivals and attending Little League games. Just not now.

Deidre arched a perfectly shaped blond brow. “I suppose that criticism is directed at me?”

“No.” Chelsea took a deep breath. Why was it that conversations with her mother always turned out like this, she wondered miserably. “Of course not. I only meant that I wanted to be a more hands-on kind of mom.”

“That’s what you say now.” Deidre gave her daughter a knowing look across the table. “The first time you change a diaper or go hours without sleep because of a teething baby, you may change your mind.”

The idea of Deidre Lowell dirtying her manicured hands by changing a diaper made Chelsea smile. “I guess that’s a risk I’m going to have to take.”

“Again, I’m not surprised. You always have been a risk-taker, Chelsea.” She put her napkin down onto the table and stood up, prepared to leave. “Just like your father.”

As before, she did not make it sound like a compliment. Having apologized enough for one day, Chelsea took it as one.

After a week of uncharacteristic vacillation—during which time she changed her mind at least a dozen times, although she still had misgivings about the proposal—Chelsea decided to take Roxanne Scarbrough up on her offer to visit Raintree, Georgia.

Since Raintree was too small for its own airfield, Chelsea was required to land in Savannah. From the air, the riverside city looked like an island, surrounded by pine forests and salt marshes. As the plane touched down on the runway, Chelsea, who’d never considered herself at all psychic, started to shake inside, like a tuning fork trembling at a discordant chord.

As promised, Roxanne’s assistant was waiting for her as she exited the jetway.

“Hello, Ms. Cassidy,” Dorothy Landis greeted her with a welcoming smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hi. It’s good to be here.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but Chelsea was trying to keep an open mind.

“Ms. Scarbrough is so pleased you decided to take her up on her offer to visit us. She’s personally prepared the guest suite for your arrival.”

Being forced into meeting with the doyenne of decorating was one thing. Spending even one night under the same roof with the unpleasant woman was decidedly less than appealing.